


Control

by IncompleteSentanc (Erava)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 00:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erava/pseuds/IncompleteSentanc
Summary: A girl goes to sleep one day, and the next she wakes up to a new world.It’s a familiar world in an unfamiliar way. She isn’t strong. She isn’t magically inclined. She’s never seen a Materia or a sword in her life before this.But she has her mind and she has her body, and for certain organizations, that’s all she needs.





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> “I’m bigger than my body.  
> I’m colder than this home.  
> I’m meaner than my demons.  
> I’m bigger than these bones.”  
> Control - Halsey

She’s born without a name.

Or, at least, no one alive can remember it. She’s two when she’s orphaned, and even if she can remember a life before this one, she was still only _two_ at the time. So she forgets her name. She forgets she ever had one, beyond a vague feeling that it had started with an ‘E’, maybe. Even memories of her previous name are foggy - along with most of the memories of that life.

So she picks a name for herself.

Ria, a simple enough name but still a little bit odd for her city, just a little bit _unique._

Just enough to make it _hers._

All in all, her situation is a very lucky one. She’s orphaned when she can already talk and knows the alphabet - enough to teach herself to read when she’s older. She’s orphaned in a city where there’s plenty of sun to warm her skin, plenty of people wealthy enough to discard good food without thinking about it, and the streets almost never get cold.

She’s cute enough to get away with begging for money and food, and she’s quick and smart enough to dodge overly-helpful people who want to take her to the orphanages.

She’s Ria, an orphan of Costa Del Sol - and she’s seven when her luck runs out.

Or just starts.

It’s a toss up sometimes, really.

 

* * *

 

Naturally, it’s the coldest winter in years when they come to her abode. She’s seven and living in an underground tunnel - under one of the most popular streets, which means there are a _lot_ of them there, ages ranging from early single to late double digits.

It’s also the first time in more years than she’s lived that there’s snow on the beaches of Costa Del Sol - and blowing weakly into their otherwise warm-enough tunnel.

It’s two of them - black suits crisp and _almost_ untouched by the snow - and one wears a gun at his hip, the other a pair of gloves. The tunnel isn’t particularly crowded - it’s midday, so most of the homeless are mingling with the people - but there’s enough of them that it’s noticeable when everyone goes quiet. The adults do first, and Ria, like the other children, follow suit.

“We need information.” The one with the gun says, voice hard but not _particularly_ unkind.

She takes them in, thinking over the memories she has of suits like theirs, and then pipes up. “How much?” Ria asks, moving towards them. An elderly woman - Jackie, they call her - grabs at her wrist but she darts quickly around it, gaze focused on the two men. The one with the gloves is looking over everyone else, but the gunman stares at her with narrowing eyes as she steps closer.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He pulls back his jacket, hand brushing over his gun and his eyes narrowing further when she barely blinks, and extracts a small, knotted bag. He dangles it by a string from the tip of his finger, his partner finally focusing on her and pulling out a photograph.

Ria stops right in front of them, stretching to her toes to see the photograph clearly without touching it. She takes it in, blinking slowly a few times, then rocks back on her heels and looks at the bag.

The man shifts his finger just enough to let the bag sway, and she reaches up to snatch it without further invitation. She immediately knows it’s enough - the weight gives it away - but she double checks and looks inside it, quickly counting.

Fifteen Gil.

 _Fifteen_ Gil. Fifteen big, fat meals at the inn, if she wanted them.

She cradles the pouch to her chest and looks up at them again, her olive eyes sparkling. “What do you need to know?”

 

* * *

 

Whatever their business, it has Ria guiding them into the photographed manor through a small entrance in the sewers. The one with gloves makes a face the entire time, but the one with the gun is almost completely impassive.

When they slide back into the tunnel with only the smallest hint of blood on their sleeves, Ria’s waiting for them. They don’t acknowledge her besides a quick glance, but she follows them doggedly, until they’re almost out into the city. They stop in an alleyway, the one with the gun turning towards her and adjusting his cuffs until the blood drops aren’t showing anymore. “Who are you, girl?”

She shrugs. “Ria.”

“No family name?” The man questions with an arched brow that she returns.

“No family.” She points out with another shrug. Why else would she be living in tunnels?

“You’re a smart girl, ‘Ria’,” He says like he knows it’s not her _real_ name, and she smiles toothily at him.

“I know.” She says with dancing eyes. The man snorts softly.

“Too smart. Helping people like us? You’ll get yourself killed being so reckless, girl.”

“That’s alright.” Ria counters instantly and flippantly. “Life’s _boring.”_ She says, and it’s completely true.

For a world of magic and adventure, Gaia sure was _boring._

“It’s a little early to say that, don’t you think?” The man asks, brow arching a bit higher. It exaggerates the wrinkles on his face, somehow, and she cocks her head questioningly. “You’re just a street rat. Life for you has been confined to sewers and alleyways.” The man gestures pointedly to the alleyway they’re in right then.

He looks around for a moment, then stares intently at her, brown eyes boring into her green-brown ones.

“How would you like to see life outside of these streets, ‘Ria’?” He asks mildly.

She smiles and it’s all teeth.

 

They take her with them when they leave.

 

* * *

 

The Turks take her name away as easily as she’d gotten it. “You’re no one, now. Just another street rat who hasn’t earned her name yet.” The man with the gun tells her. His name is Veld, a name she recognizes from her past life, and she just nods when he tells her this. “You don’t even argue? Names are important.”

“No one gave me that name.” Ria counters and his brow arches again, his stare cold as he locks her under it.

“You gave it to yourself? Then it’s even more important.” He tells her coolly, presenting a small gun for her. It’s small, but even so it looks ridiculous in her hands. She takes it with as much grace as she can for something so overlarge and Veld watches critically. “Mirror me.” He commands, turning and drawing his own gun in one smooth motion. He points it out and she turns to try and mimic his stance, holding the gun with one hand even though she _knows_ she won’t be able to handle the kickback.

Even knowing it, when he fires, she doesn’t hesitate to do so as well.

Her shoulder aches for a week, but it’s worth the approving - and amused - quirk to his lip.

 

* * *

 

 

Her name is taken away when she’s seven, and it’s not until she’s thirteen that she earns herself a new one.

The years are hell, and she won’t try to deny that. Most of it’s spent learning - not training, but learning. Strategy, mathematics, and languages. Body language, as well. Accents and languages become second nature, until she can switch between them in an instant. “You’re lucky.” Veld tells her in a way that implies he’s not sure she really is. “You’ve got a hint of Wutai to you. You’ll be useful in the coming years.” He says, and she never does know for sure if that was supposed to be a warning or not.

She has straight black hair and brown-green eyes, so she can see what he means by a ‘hint’ of it. Her eyes are too narrow and her hair too dark. But she’s a hint too tan to be Wutaian, even after years living in a facility instead of Costa Del Sol.

So she learns.

She learns how to talk, how to write, how to read Wutaian - and then how to read people as easily as the letters themselves. She learns how to run and how to duck, and then she learns how to _fight._

The man who had worn gloves when they found her teaches her that, but it’s all he teaches her. He has his own student - a nameless boy not much younger than herself who looks vaguely familiar. Familiar enough that she wants to call him _Rude_ sometimes, and she’s pretty sure that’ll be his name one day.

Veld teaches her to shoot, Martial Arts teaches her to fight, and one day, when she’s thirteen, she’s been around long enough to meet another girl in the facility. A girl younger than her, but already named.

“Shuriken.” Veld introduces, and she takes in the massive shuriken that’s almost as big as the girl herself, and an idea sparks in her mind.

It’s not long after that that her ‘graduation day’ comes.

“You’re sure?” Veld asks when she tells him and she nods. “It’s a difficult thing,” Veld warns her, “to take a life in cold blood. Even more so when you do it face to face. And you’ll have to be close.” He points out, reaching out to touch the weapon she’d chosen. He looks to her, eyes narrowed and face hard. “You’ll see his fear. You’ll hear him beg. And you’ll feel the blood on your hands.”

She holds his stare and doesn’t protest, simply nods sharply again.

“Very well.” Veld murmurs and it’s condemning instead of approving.

She’s not sure how to feel about that. In the end, she doesn’t have the chance to find out. Veld pulls the weapon from it’s case and offers it to her, his hands dwarfing hers when she reaches out to take it. It’s larger than even Shuriken weapon, though barely, and it’s so heavy she’d have no chance of even just holding it without her years of training.

As it is, she steps away from Veld and spins it carefully, watching it move.

“I’ve procured the Command Materia you’ll need.” He informs her, gesturing to the yellow orb nestled in the grip of her massive weapon. “The pair is here. We’ll practice that later. The rest, well.” Veld shrugs as he hands her a glove. The material is black - naturally, for these people - and full fingered. She settles her weapon at her side and takes it, feeling the metal plates clink in the palm of the glove. It’s armored from each fingertip to the wrist of the glove, just in case. And on the back of the hand, there’s a small slot - which Veld silently explains by presenting a yellow orb identical to the one in the weapon.

“You’ll get your Materia training from me. This weapon you’ll have to learn all on your own - though Shuriken may have some advice.” He adds, eyeing the weapon skeptically.

The weapon is, for lack of a better term, a circle. It’s large enough that while resting at her side, it goes to her hip. The entire length of it is bladed, with only a small ‘hilt’ that holds the Materia in it. The inside is flat and dulled, but the outer rim of the weapon is so sharp it _sings_ as she shifts it just a little.

“I suppose you and her have a lot to in common now.” The man adds in the driest of tones. “Both of you use a weapon that has no business being so enormous. You realize chakrams are _handheld_ weapons?”

“I’ll use my hands.” She chimes lightly.

He rolls his eyes at her and pushes from the wall. “Come with me. It’s time for you to earn your name.”

She follows him silently, ignoring the deep set unease curling in her gut.

 

* * *

 

There’s a man in a room, strapped to a chair. His face is wet with blood and tears, and he looks hollowly down at the ground as she watches.

“He betrayed the company.” Veld tells her, and that’s all she should need to know.

But she remembers another lifetime with different morals, and something in her _twists_ sickeningly at this.

 _You’ll hear him beg,_ Veld had said.

She proves him wrong. Without waiting another word from him, she shoves past and through the door, into the room with the man. The man looks up, eyes widening and lips parting, and she proves Veld wrong.

With the swing of her arms, the chakram _sings,_ and the man’s head flies all without a sound.

He doesn’t beg.

She never gives him the chance.

“Welcome to the the Turks,” Veld says quietly and without pomp and circumstance. “You’re Chakram now. Get used to it.”

She smiles and doesn’t let the sickness in her gut show.

She’s in a new world now, and though she hasn’t any idea how or why, she needs to make her own way.

 

And this is just the first step.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small one-shot I semi dreamt up. May one day evolve, but for now it's complete.
> 
> Note: Weapon is based off a chakram from the game Black Desert Online. Figured it's about a realistic as a gigantic shuriken weapon, so why not?
> 
> https://bdo.mmo-fashion.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/12/2016/12/Desert-Camouflage-Sah-Chakram-Drawn.jpg for reference


End file.
